A composition book, quad ruled, red marble patterned cardboard cover.
In the label field and on a strip of blue tape, in decreasing sizes of Sharpie marker: MOOSE /PRIVATE! PRIVATE!/ PRIVATE NOTEBOOK #3 That means PRIVATE. THAT MEANS YOU. REALLY.
Inside, on the first page:
Back to school, and back to school writing. Can you believe Ms. (X) gave us “What I Did on My Summer Vacation”? She probably gave my mom the same assignment. Some old-time teacher probably gave it to my grandmother. My great grandmother, even. What they get back today is probably less crops and making jam and more soccer and computer camp, but it can’t be that much more interesting. Just a list.
I’m not stupid. I’m going to write a list too: acing the public library reading program, Pioneer day camp at the Rutherford Homestead, going with Murphy to visit our other cousins and seeing the ocean: swimming and taking rides on the ferry and eating boiled shrimp. It’s not a bad list.
But I’m glad I have a notebook like this to so I can tell the real stuff. Lots of things happened that can’t go on the school list, like exploring the so-called haunted house, the day we got lost in the swamp, and the major redesign we did on the Fort. You can’t write about your secret headquarters in a school paper. (And that new secondary supersecret emergency backup headquarters we’re building in the old bus Bud gave us in the remotest part of the Junkyard probably shouldn’t be mentioned at all.) And then there’s what happened at the County Fair. That was the major thing. The story that we’ll always remember about this particular summer.
Isn’t it weird that it should be the Fair? That’s something out of every school essay, something even your great grandmother could have written about. What happened could even have happened to her. But it didn’t. It waited a hundred years until it could happen to us.